


Dilettante

by havisham



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Awkward Boners, Character Study, M/M, Mild Spoilers, Quiet Sex, Sharing a Bed, Victor Reads the Comments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:01:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8778772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: Victor Nikiforov is the consummate professional on the ice, but an utter dilettante in love.





	

Victor had often been accused by his old lovers of having an icy heart, but that was never true. He had always known his time was limited -- a skater’s body could only withstand so much before it crumbled with the demands of time and wear -- and that was why he was never with anyone for long. For better or worse, he had chosen to give his youth and vitality for the sport, before anything or anyone else.

Those he chose to be with either understood right away, or soon discovered that fact.

It was one of the few things he and Yakov agreed on completely. 

Yakov’s disastrous marriage with Lilia was something that the two of them had only recently begun to recover from and Victor, however inattentive a pupil Yakov seemed to think he was -- understood why. 

Love and duty didn’t mix. 

All of this together was what made his feelings for Katsuki Yuuri so explosive. Victor watched this virtual stranger -- they had spoken a few words to each other during the Grand Prix Final, before Victor had mistaken him for a selfie-seeking fan -- skate to his music almost perfectly and he felt his not-icy heart shift a little in his chest. 

Even pressing his face into Makkachin’s warm fur didn’t stop this strange fluttering. This wasn’t inconsistent, Victor decided. Look at him, this Katsuki Yuuri, who had crashed and burned repeatedly all last year. Better skaters than him would have quit under that stress, but here he was -- skating his heart out in some anonymous rink, seemingly unaware of the world around him. 

He was using Victor’s music and Victor’s moves, but there was something else. The spirit of his skating was both intensely familiar and yet strange. Victor watched him skate, again and again, but it still wasn’t enough. 

In the madness of the moment, he even scrolled down and read the comments. And besides all the usual bullshit and conspiracy theories that always cropped up in the comment sections of any place on the internet that mentioned him by name (why so many trolls thought he was Putin’s secret love child, Victor had no idea), there a few comments from Katsuki Yuuri’s fans that identified the skating rink as Ice Castle Hasetsu, located in Katsuki’s hometown. 

_He hasn’t been back there for 5 years,_ said one commenter. 

Another wondered: _Is Yuuri-chan retiring? Is that why he’s back in Hasetsu and not in Detroit?_

_After last year, my friend thought he might try to kill himself--_

Victor closed out the window before he finished reading the rest of that sentence. He knew what he had to do -- do what Yuuri had drunkenly requested him to do at the banquet at the end of the Grand Prix Finale last year. He would seek out Katsuki Yuuri out and train him. He could do so much better than he had in last year’s Grand Prix Final, he only needed someone like Victor to push him along.

“I’ll coach him, Makkachin. He needs it and I need --” Makkachin woofed and snuggled closer to Victor, not listening. 

Victor rubbed at his temples and looked around his apartment, as beautiful and as new as the day he had first moved in. He could count with one hand how many times he’d actually slept here. He began to mentally tick off everything he would have to bring with him to Japan. 

Makkachin gamely licked his chin, which was as much of an encouragement as anything. 

*

He’d left Yakov fuming at the airport in Saint Petersburg and had slept like a baby through most of his journey. He wasn’t the kind of person to give in to doubt but whenever Victor felt even a little niggle of it in the back of his mind, he pulled up the video of Yuuri doing his routine and he felt certain again.

*

It was almost offensive, how adorable Yuuri was, even though his complete and utter befuddlement to see Victor lounging in the hot springs. He looked like he was ready to faint when Victor got up, which pleased Victor almost too much. 

Makkachin liked him immediately, which was good -- Makkachin was a silly old dog in many ways, but when it came to people he was rarely wrong. 

Victor’s own instincts were almost as good. Yuuri continued to be sweet, flustered and handsome in a rounded sort of way, but there was nothing of the Yuuri that Victor had seen in the video. As Victor got to know the circumstances behind the video, however, it became clear why. 

The Yuuri in the video was skating for one person -- a childhood friend? Was Yuuri interested in her? Still, even as a mother of three? -- and felt free enough to express himself so well. Whereas the Yuuri in front of him -- his face beet-red and sweating, having scrambled away from Victor’s eager grasp on his knees. 

Victor realized then that he would have to change tactics. He couldn’t overpower Yuuri with his charms -- well, he probably could -- but that wouldn’t be best for Yuuri, and certainly wouldn’t let Yuuri grow into the skater Victor knew he could be. 

*

“You can’t stay here,” Yurio hissed at him in Russian, as soon as Yuuri disappeared from view, following his sister upstairs to clear a storage room for him to sleep in. Victor yawned loudly and stretched out, careful not to disturb Makkachin, who was sleeping with his head on Victor’s lap. 

“I'm going to give you what you need, Yurio, don't worry about that,” Victor said cheerfully. “I'll send you back to Yakov with choreography for your senior debut.” 

“Don't,” Yurio snapped. “I _know_ you, Victor. You like to be worshipped and you like to be adored. You get that here and you're in heaven. But you belong with us -- you owe Yakov, you owe _me_. Why are you throwing everything away for this idiot? He's going to crack up when the pressure gets too much and everyone’s going to blame you for encouraging him.” 

“Yurio…” 

“Don't call me that!” 

Victor gave him a half smile and rubbed his temples for a moment. “You know, this is a more sophisticated attack than I thought you’d make. I would ask if Yakov set you up to this--” 

“Yakov didn't want me to come here! He didn't tell me anything!” Yurio’s voice rose and his face flushed red. He was getting worked up again. “He thinks you've gone crazy and it’s contagious--” 

Victor leaned in and caught Yurio’s chin for a moment. The boy stilled, his eyes wide. Still smiling, Victor said, “Since you want my guidance so much, Yura, let me give you some free advice -- don't underestimate your competition. That makes you arrogant, which makes you careless, which makes you lose. You can learn something from Yuuri, as he can learn from you.” 

“I don't have to learn anything from him. I came to learn from _you_ ,” Yurio muttered, closing his arms around his chest. 

“But you're not listening to any of my advice. Useless, isn't it?” 

“Your advice is self-serving pigshit!” 

“Might be, Yura, but you did come all the way from Russia to hear it.” 

“You've lost your touch, you’re irrelevant, you're obsessed with the wrong Yuri!” 

Victor began to laugh. He couldn't help it, though he could see that Yurio was in earnest and angered by that fact. 

“I am sorry, Yurio,” he said, between stifled giggles, “but it's probably better for you to get over me sooner than later. I’ll disappoint you.” 

“You already have!” 

“All right, all right,” Victor said, and looked around. Makkachin had rolled away from him when he and Yurio were talking. Or was it yelling? He noticed that some of the onsen patrons were openly staring at him and Yurio and even Mr. Katsuki was cleaning a table very slowly in front of him.

Victor got up and said, loudly and in Japanese, “Yurio! Let's get you to bed -- tomorrow we’re going to the temple.” 

Yurio made a face that was almost demonic in its displeasure. Victor laughed and reached over to ruffle Yurio’s hair, though the boy ducked at his touch with a growl. 

“I don't mean to be a stern father to you, Yura.” 

“You aren't one.” 

“But will you listen to me?”

Yurio frowned deeply but then nodded. “Fine.” 

*

They trained and they trained. Yuri left for Russia without telling Victor anything further, and then cut him off in social media. It stung, a little, being snubbed by a child, but Victor didn't mind it much. 

Instead, he focused on Yuuri. 

Yuuri never balked at anything Victor wanted him to do, but always wanted to take things further. Victor watched Yuuri’s confidence grow by leaps and bounds and allowed himself a certain measure of pride, watching Yuuri’s program take shape. 

It was rare, he thought, that you could change someone so completely. Yuuri caught his eye and smiled, giving him a thumbs up. Victor smiled back and returned the gesture. And because he was relentlessly honest, at least to to himself, Victor allowed that Yuuri was changing him too.

*

“Victor,” Yuuri said, a faint blush already on his face. They were still in Beijing for a few more hours, and Victor had belatedly realized that Yuuri had not properly slept for two days now. They had left the party -- and a pouting Chris -- at the lobby, and now Victor was trying to wrestle a surprisingly clingy Yuuri to bed.

“ _Victor_ ,” Yuuri said, loudly now and Victor tried to unbutton his shirt. Victor paused for a moment and sighed. 

“Yuuri, you’ve done wonderfully today but if you don’t sleep now, your training will suffer. And everyone will harp on what a terrible coach I am. You can sleep until our flight starts boarding.” 

“I don’t feel tired at all,” Yuuri firmly, sitting up in bed and almost headbutting Victor in the process. “Can we talk?” 

“Of course, Yuri, you can always talk to me,” Victor said, sitting on the side of Yuuri’s bed. It was, however, very late and he was very tired. So he couldn’t quite help but immediately lie back. The mattress squeaked and bounced a little as Yuuri dragged himself closer to Victor. They bumped against each other, Victor’s shoulder to Yuuri’s chin, but eventually they were roughly aligned. 

“I _am_ a terrible coach,” Victor began to say, pushing the hair out of Yuuri’s face, who blinked at him sleepily. “Yakov would never let you get into this condition.” 

“You’re a great coach,” Yuuri said, unconvincingly. Victor hummed, his hands tracing down the newly sharp line of Yuuri’s jaw. Truly, in a few short months Yuuri had become the picture of Eros. There was hardly anything to pick apart in his appearance, though his skating was another thing. 

He could do better, Victor knew it. And it was up to Victor bring it out for him. “Yuuri, what can I do to help you now? How can I get you to --” he didn't have a chance to finish that thought, because Yuuri leaned in and kissed him. It was not a shy kiss, but a passionate one, with his mouth and his tongue sliding against Victor’s. 

Somehow Yuuri had managed to get a handful of Victor’s hair and gripped it hard, almost to the point of pain, but also pleasure. Victor sighed deeply, and said, “Oh, Yuuri, my dear, yes--” 

He was greeted by a quiet snore. 

Yuuri was asleep and dead to the world. Victor got up and pulled the blankets over him. He tried to pull himself together and decided to clear his thoughts on the balcony. 

Outside, the air was cool and only slightly smoky. Victor wished that he had a cigarette -- he'd quit years ago when it was clear that he'd have to make a choice between looking cool and breathing freely on the rink and off. In his pocket, his phone chimed. It was a push notification for the Google alerts he had on his name, on Yuuri’s name.

The skating world was going crazy about the kiss -- well, the parts that hadn't censored it -- but all Victor could think of was Yuuri, just Yuuri on the ice.

*

It was Victor’s mother who had first gifted Makkachin to him. He had been a tiny brown ball of fluff then and Victor was instantly charmed by the way Makkachin squeaked and wiggled in his arms, trying desperately to get the blue satin ribbon off his neck. 

But still, he wasn't sure he'd have time to take care of a puppy and keep up with his training. His mother had told him, bluntly, as was her way, that he would have to learn to care for something other than himself.

(Unlike his father, his mother didn't say, though Victor heard her well enough.) 

It turned out that Victor’s mother was right: Makkachin had taught Victor a lot, especially about love. And by the time Victor came to Japan, Makkachin was all that was left of his family. 

_Family_. He thought of this more and more as time, as the minutes and hours slipped away between him leaving Yuuri in Moscow and waiting at the airport for Mari to come pick him up. He was fascinated by the Katsuki family -- with how much they seemed to love and accept one another. Simple, but loving. 

Had Victor ever have that, except for Makkachin? 

(He thought of his mother then, and felt guilty -- but not very guilty.) 

As he walked out of the airport without much regard to where he was going, a carhorn blared and startled him out of his reverie. It was Mari, driving a white van that said Yu-topia on the side. She motioned to him to get inside quickly, since she was parking illegally on the curb. 

Once he was settled and they were careening off towards the veterinarian's office, Victor ventured to ask, “Is Makkachin dying?” 

Mari shook her head. “No. He is a little better than before, but --” She glanced at him uneasily. “It’s better that you are here.” 

After a while, Mari continued. “He’s a good dog.” 

Victor nodded. 

“You might be wondering if we could --” 

“No,” Victor said firmly. “I know Makkachin. He’s a wily creature and always gets at things he shouldn't -- you wouldn't believe how many of my bouquets he's eaten. I don’t blame anyone.” 

“First Vicchan and now this, I was afraid our home was cursed for dogs,” Mari said, with a laugh that turned into a cough when she saw Victor staring at her. 

“Vicchan?” Victor thought of the picture of younger Yuuri with a brown poodle that he had seen day in and day out at Yu-topia, but never really noticed. “That was … Yuuri’s dog.” 

“Oh, yes, Vicchan, Yuuri’s dog. Died last year -- named after you. Didn’t you know?” 

“Not -- really.” 

Slowly, Mari said, “You do know that my brother is obsessed with you, don’t you?” 

“Oh, that,” Victor said, waving it away. “Anyway, it’s mutual now.” 

*

“Ah but you’re going to live forever, aren’t you, Makkachin?” Victor said as he kissed and petted Makkachin mercilessly. As soon as the dog was released from the veterinarian’s office, Victor had installed him back into the family living quarters of Yu-topia. The Katsukis had made themselves scarce during their rather tearful reunion, although Mrs. Katsuki had dropped heavy hints that she would make katsudon for dinner tonight. 

Makkachin woofed and licked at Victor’s wet cheeks, as if to say, _oh you weak and foolish man, of course I am going to live forever._

*

They all gathered around the television to watch Yuuri’s free skate program, though it took place at an ungodly hour of night and the triplets really should have been in bed. Victor remembered being six years old himself and utterly transfixed by skating, but then his knowledge then of the intricacies of the sport and competitions were very much lacking. Looking at the triplets’ excited talk about Yuuri’s prospects of getting a slot at the Grand Prix Final, Victor both marveled and dreaded the future. 

Minako placed a quarter-bottle of whiskey next to him and offered him a glass. Victor accepted with a muttered thanks and they both watched as Yuuri took center stage. Victor had a notepad in front of him -- he thought it might be from Yuuri’s old school books, there were some equations at the beginning that he flipped past -- and he took some quick notes about Yuuri’s performance. 

Mostly not, however. Mostly, he watched Yuuri and felt that he had failed him. 

But Victor knew Yuuri, and he wasn’t surprised that Yuuri managed to squeak into the top four. His Short Program had been so flawless that it made up for the deficiencies in the Free Skate… Or the absent coaching. 

How was Yuuri handling Yakov? In the kiss and cry, Yuuri had hugged the old man, unnerving him and Victor had laughed-snorted into his drink. By then Yuuko and Takeshi and their daughters had gone home, and Minako had magnanimously left him with the empty bottle. 

That night, or what was left of it, Victor couldn’t sleep. 

He left Makkachin snoozing in bed and wandered over to the bathroom down the hall from his room, which he shared with the other guests on the floor. The fluorescent bulb above him lit his face harshly. Victor was horrified to see that there were wrinkles forming on the sides of his mouth, and his skin was blotchy and red, especially around his nose. And there, a dark spot on his chin. 

Was that a pimple? 

He had barely had pimples when he was sixteen, why the hell was he getting them now? 

“This is torture,” Victor whispered to himself and felt tears well up in his eyes. 

Was he really going to cry because he looked ugly, and not because Yuuri had struggled on the ice alone (not alone, he had Yakov, said some rational part of him, but Yakov didn’t know him like Victor did, said a more emotional but no less correct part) -- was he that stupid, that shallow? 

Didn’t Yuuri deserve a better coach? Didn’t the world deserve a better Victor? 

He felt terribly and nothing could relieve him -- except, Victor pushed down his pants and took out his cock. After a few half-hearted pulls, he dribbled a few drops of come into the sink. Nothing like what Chris would produce when _he_ was sad or drunk or excited, but it was satisfactory in the least satisfactory way possible. 

“I’m so sorry, Yuuri,” Victor said regretfully, as he washed and dried his hands. He would put something on that pimple tomorrow. 

*

And afterward, when he was back in bed and curled up with Makkachin, Victor did feel better. Despite everything, Yuuri was going to the Grand Prix, and Victor was going with him. He had to put his faith in Yuuri, and he did.

*

After their reunion, Victor and Yuuri walked hand in hand around the airport for some time, Makkachin loping in front of them. They both felt more dazed than anything else, or at least Victor did. 

Yuuri seemed all right, even fresh from competition and a long plane ride from Russia. He was determined to keep walking by Victor, leaning against him in the moments he thought Victor wasn’t paying attention. 

(Which was wrong, anyway, Victor always paid attention to Yuuri.) 

“You must be starving, Yuuri,” Victor said at last. “Do you want go home or find something here?” 

“I don't know. I'm not very hungry, and I don't think I've thought of food less,” Yuuri said thoughtfully.

“Wow! Not even katsudon?” 

“There's always a part of my mind that is thinking about katsudon,” Yuuri said with a sheepish grin. 

“Now I think of it too,” Victor said, “but I've prefer to eat you instead.” 

Yuuri’s face went brick red while Victor laughed, but then Yuuri pulled Victor by the lapels and leaned in close. Victor bent down a little, his mouth open in anticipation. 

After a moment, Yuuri smiled. “You’re right, I'm hungry.” 

*

Later that evening, after dinner with Yuuri’s family and Makkachin, Victor was able to draw Yuuri away from the others with the not total pretense of checking Yuuri’s weight and other vitals.

“Phichit posted a video on social media,” Yuuri muttered. He read Phichit’s comments, but went no further. Victor took Yuuri’s phone from him and scrolled down to the user comments, absorbed in reading. 

Yuuri wiggled his fingers in between Victor and the screen. “Uh, Victor? Why are you reading the comments?” 

“Of course,” Victor said, perfectly serious. “I always read the comments.” 

“But that would drive anyone crazy -- Victor, people on the Internet are very invested and very loud about everything! It’s not healthy to read their comments -- I know!” 

“Oh kind Yuuri, trying to protect my delicate ego,” Victor said, smiling. He handed Yuuri’s phone back to him. He would never tell Yuuri, of course, that he had been personally banned from most of the online Victor Nikiforov fangroups -- not, of course, that they knew they were banning Victor Nikiforov himself. 

Victor yawned then, exaggeratedly loud. “Yuuri,” he drawled, “let's go to bed together.” 

“Okay,” Yuuri said instantly. “Is my room all right?”

*

It was not the first time they had slept together, but it was still new enough that every moment of it was unbearably sweet. There was still something soft and unprotected about Yuuri, especially when he would look at Victor with those eyes, so dark and filled with love and admiration. Admiration, still! But there was something else too, now. Yuuri knew him, recognized something in him, and that recognition both pleased and disturbed Victor in equal measure. He couldn’t pretend with Yuuri. 

And no icy heart could protect Victor here. Here, it was all fleshy, messy and human. Yuuri’s narrow bed creaked dangerous under their combined weight and Yuuri’s breathing came rabbit-quick. He was thinking, Victor knew, about his parents sleeping below, and his sister sleeping across the hallway. 

But then Victor kissed him again and Yuuri was his again, completely.

It was easy to get people to love you -- an audience, a judge, a lover. It was harder to be worthy of love. Victor found himself babbling to himself, to Yuuri, to anyone who might be listening: “I’ll be worthy of you, I won’t fail.” He stared at the ceiling, noticing for the first time a cobweb that spanned one wooden beam to the next. 

He would have kept looking, except Yuuri took a hold of his chin, firmly, so they could look at each other, eye to eye, as Yuuri pushed in. Victor sighed -- or maybe he screamed -- because Yuuri wobbled a little -- his cock popped out and he gave Victor an agonized look. He whispered, “Victor! My parents!” 

“I’ll be quieter,” Victor assured him, leaning up and kissing Yuuri’s chest, the only place he could quite reach, and stroked it until Yuuri calmed down enough to try again. 

It wasn’t the best fuck Victor had had in his life -- Yuuri was so nervous that his teeth began to chatter, but he wouldn’t hear of stopping again -- but afterward, still wrapped up in Yuuri’s arms and his sheets, every sense of his filled up with Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri, Victor could not quite think of any experience that could have been better. 

Outside the door, he could hear Makkachin scratching at the door and whining to be let in. Yuuri was already asleep, his hair tumbled on his face. He looked like he was a boy and Victor wished for a moment they had met earlier, and perhaps would have had longer together. 

Ah, well. He dressed quickly and opened the door. Makkachin bound in and made his way to Yuuri’s bed. He was too big to get on it without help, and he turned and gave Victor begging looks for help. 

“Ah, Makkachin, let Yuuri sleep! Come with me,” Victor whispered, gesturing for Makkachin to follow him. But Makkachin woofed softly and stayed where he was. 

“You rotten traitor,” Victor hissed, helping Makkachin up onto Yuuri’s bed.

Makkachin immediately went over to where Yuuri slept and curled up next to him. “Vicchan,” Yuuri sighed in his sleep, as Makkachin, the shameless thing, wiggled closer to him. As Victor moved away, however, Yuuri reached for him. “Don’t go.” 

Victor leaned in, “Yuuri, there’s no room. And what will your parents say if they saw me come out of your room tomorrow morning?” 

Yuuri muttered something about coaching fees that Victor didn’t quite understand. Then, louder, “Stay with me, Vitya.” 

And so he did. Though the bed was crowded with two men and one dog, Victor couldn’t complain. He was asleep too quickly for that. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Sath for holding my butt and betaing this thing. 
> 
> All remaining errors are mine, etc.
> 
> [The DVD commentary for this fic can be read here.](http://moetushie.dreamwidth.org/429188.html)


End file.
